Date: Sun, 31 Jul 2011 06:16:28 -0700 (PDT)
From: Macout Mann
Subject: John's Hitchhiking Adventure - Part 2
The usual cautions apply. Comments are encouraged. macoutmann@yahoo.com
JOHN'S HITCHHIKING ADVENTURE
Part 2
by Macout Mann
Me and Granddad had a lota fun. I hadn't seen him since December.
He did have to work Monday, but I kept myself busy watching his porn dvds.
Lots better seeing stuff on a big tv screen.
After a hot night, we got up super early Tuesday, so he could take me out
to start my hitch to Chattanooga and still get to his job on time. It was
before six when he droped me in the I75, I285 interchange. Traffic was
already heavy. I walked to the bottom of the northernmost I75 entrance
ramp and stuck out my thumb.
Thirty minutes later I was still there when a state police cruiser pulled
up. The cop asked me why I was out on the freeway. I told him this was
where I got let out. He said "they" ought've had better sense than that.
He put me in the back seat. Checked me out and found I was clean. Then
said he'd take me to the next exit, where I could stand at the top of the
on-ramp. I thanked him nicely.
There wasn't a whole lot of traffic getting on the freeway where he dropped
me, though, and I stood there almost an hour and a half, before a
commercial van pulled to a stop. I jumped in. The driver was a greasy
looking, bald, fat motherfucker in summer-weight coveralls zipped down
below his belly button. He asked me the usual questions. Where was I
going, what sort of luck was I having. I was developing a patter I could
use over and over with each new ride. Thing was that all the time this
dude was talking, he was clawing his crotch like he had a bad case of crabs
or something. I pretended not to notice. After a weekend with Granddad, I
wasn't horny anyway. And even if I was....
Well, either he realized I wasn't goanna or he got to where he was going.
After about four exits and twenty minutes he dropped me off just north of
Marietta.
The traffic was still fierce. I'm glad I don't live anywhere near Atlanta.
It was only a little less heavy, when I finally got a ride about 11:30. A
dude in a brand new pickup. He told me to toss my shit in the bed, and I
climbed in. He was late forties, I'd guess. Tall, bare chested and in
well-worn jeans. Said he was a farmer and that he'd done a lot of
hitchhiking when he was younger. He'd generally pick up anybody he saw.
He was headed to Dalton, what used to be "the carpet capital of the world;"
but like with everything else, most of the plants had moved overseas.
I told him about my plans, and he asked me what had happened so far. I
told him, mentioning that between Mobile and Atlanta I'd met a priest, a
professor , an old guy whose head wasn't screwed on right, and one gay boy.
"And what did you and the gay boy do?" he grinned.
I must've blushed. He just laughed like hell.
"Look, dude, I'm totally straight," he said. "But, like I said, I've been
out there. I know what goes on. And I've let gays suck me of plenty of
times. Feels a hellova lot better than jacking off. And if you can pick
up a few bucks in the process, so much the better."
"You got that right," I laughed.
He told me all about his farm and his family. His daughter had just
married another farmer. He had a son who was into farming too, but another
one who couldn't wait to get away to the big city. "And that's o.k," he
said.
It was about one o'clock when he dropped me at the first Dalton exit.
Nobody's stopping and I'm damned hot. I strip off my t and continue to
roast. After I realize I'm gonna get a burn, I go over to the nearest
convenience store and buy some sun screen. Rub it in and hit the ramp
again. I oughta get a good tan anyway.
It's way after three when a seen-its-better-days Chevy stops. Inside's a
middle-aged guy in a t shirt with sleeves ripped out and a pair of camo
shorts. "You look ready to have a heat stroke," he calls.
"Sure as hell am," I pant.
I climb in and we go through the ususal routine. I learn his name is Paul,
that he lives in Chattanooga, has two orphaned nephews that live with him,
one about my age that works in a machine shop, one, a fifteen year old
schoolboy that's not old enough to get a job. He says he's a woodworker.
Does cabinets and sometimes custom furniture.
He seems like a hellova nice guy. Asks all sorts of questions about
Granddad, Chuck, and how I like school. Says he wishes he'd gone to
college, but he can't complain. I say Chuck never wanted to go, and he's
doing o.k.
It's only about forty minutes from Dalton to Chattanooga, but it's like
we've been jawing for a coupla hours. He asks, "So when d'ya eat last?"
"Shit," I stammered, "I guess not since before daylight. I hadn't thought
about it, but now that you mention it....."
"The reason I asked," he said, "is that I dunno what your plans are. But
if you wanna hit a mission, it'll be tough to get in. And it's hard to get
a ride in the evening. If you wanna come home and spend the night with me
and the boys, you're welcome to. I'll be glad to drop you back on I24
first thing in the morning."
"Gee.....thanks," I said. "I don't wanna be any trouble, though."
"Glad to have you," he replied. "The boys'd like to meet ya, I'm sure."
We leave I75 at the I24 interchange, and as we entered Chattanooga he took
an exit that led into a neighborhood of working-class bunglalows. He
introduces me to his younger nephew, Wayne, and tells me to relax while he
checks on his shop.
Wayne's a sort of scrawny kid, freckled-faced blond, in a
black-faded-to-grey t shirt and well-worn denim shorts.
"So what all you into?" He asks.
"What,cha mean?" I reply.
"You wanna see some of Paul's mags?"
He pulls out a stack of porn, hetero and homo. Hardcore shit. I thumb
through a few. One of 'em shows some stuff with kids not near old enough
to be legal. "Your uncle lets you read this shit?" I ask.
"Sure," Wayne says. "He says you gotta grow up sometime."
When Paul returns, he don't pay the least attention to the mags spread all
over the floor. Asks if I drink beer. He brings us a couple and says he's
a damn good cook. He's goanna fry up some catfish for supper. Wayne goes
and gets himself a root beer, and a few minutes later, Roger, his brother,
shows up. He shakes my hand and says he's got to wash up and hits the
shower.
I realize I'm still shirtless, so I start to pull my t back on, but Paul
says not to bother. We're all guys around here and stay casual. And when
Roger returns, he's only wearing a towel.
And that's the way we eat dinner. Scrumtious catfish fried in a cornmeal
batter with homemade French fries and hushpuppies, sliced homegrown
tomatoes, purple onions, and cole slaw. Down home cooking that couldn't
have been better.
"You wasn't kidding when you said you could cook," I told Paul.
"I used to be a fry cook before I got into woodworking," he said. Then,
turning to Roger he said, "Get something on, Roger, and let's show John
some of the sights before it gets dark.
Roger whips off his towel, revealing a nice package, and fetches a pair of
cutoffs. He's blond like his kid brother, but a dreamboat of a guy, just
enough muscles, with a fine mat of chest hair and a nice trail.
Back in the Chevy the four of us went downtown, past the Chattanooga Cho
Cho, up Missionary Ridge,where a lot of Civil War monuments are, and
finally we drove up to the top of Lookout Mountain. You're supposed to be
able to see seven states from there.
We were walking back to the car from the overlook, when Roger whispered,
"You are goanna let Uncle Paul fuck ya, aint'cha?"
"I am?" I guess I shouldn't have been surprised.
"Oh, you can fuck Wayne and me, if you wanna. But Uncle Paul always wants
to fuck the guys that spend the night with us."
"Thanks for telling me," I said.
When we arrived back at their house, Paul offered more beer and Wayne asked
to have one too. Paul and Roger took the two chairs leaving me and Wayne
on the sofa. I'm still shirtless, and Wayne wastes no time in sliding over
next to me and planting his palm on my pec. "John, it's been awhile since
we've had a dude visit, and I can't wait to suck your dick," he says.
He unbuckles me and opens my fly. My half-hard dick pops into view.
"Goddam!" Paul says, "Whatta piece of meat!"
"Yeah, I could tell he had something down there to die for," Wayne says.
And he goes down on me, like I'm the Christmas present he's awlays wanted.
Meantime, without a word Roger's come up behind Wayne and pulled his pants
down, stripped off his own cutoffs, spit on his hands, moistened his dick,
and stuffed Wayne bareback. "You can fuck me later," he tells me.
Paul's sitting over in the other chair like nothing's going on.
I let Wayne have what he wants and he drinks it all; but he's still getting
pounded by Roger, and he keeps my softening dick in his mouth until Roger
fills his ass with cum.
We continue to suck on our beers. Very little is said. After about twenty
minutes Roger comes and sits next to me. "Will you fuck me now?"
"If you've got a condom," I say.
"Aw," he says, "I gotta have that thing in my ass bareback."
"Not a chance," I tell him. "I even wear a condom when I fuck my roommate
at school, and he's even a Bible-thumper who swears he's never done it with
anybody but me.
Reluctantly, Roger brings out a Trojan. He goes down on me to get me up
all the way and rolls it on. "You just lie up on the sofa and let me sit
on your dick," he says.
I stab his anus in one motion as he forces his ass against my scrotum. I
just lie there and let him do the fucking. It's a turn on, watching his
face as my tool pleasures his ass.
"Yeah, go for it, Roger," Wayne cries. Then he says to me, "He really gets
off getting fucked this way." And he does. Without anybody even touching
him he cums again, before I do, dumping his load on my chest.
A coupla minutes later I fill the condom and he collapses on top of my
joint, leaving me inside, as he pants, "Man, that was something. I wish I
had that motherfucker to play with every day."
"Thanks for the complement, I guess, " I say.
He pulls up off my dick, removes the plastic sheath, and drinks the
contents. Then his kid brother comes over and licks Roger's cum off my
chest.
"You're a wierd bunch of perverts, aintcha?" I muse.
Paul speaks up. "Well some of us have to work tommorrow. You can sleep
with me, John. Roger and Wayne have their room in there."
I button the top button of my jeans and head for Paul's bedroom. I've been
through this whole deal just with my fly laid open. Now I strip off and so
does Paul. First time I've seen him naked. He's in pretty good shape.
I'm glad to see his dick's not nearly as big as my brother, Chuck's.
Without a word we both crawl into his double bed.
"So you and your nephews mess around all the time?" I ask.
"Sure. We got started five years ago, when their folks were killed in a
car accident. My sister's will appointed me guardian. We do a threesome
sometimes. You saw how Wayne loves to be spit roasted. But mostly we do a
three day rotation. Roger and me sleep together one night, Wayne and me
the next, and they get to sleep together the next."
"And whenever you can, you bring somebody like me along for variety."
"Yeah, whenever I can. Not so often anymore."
"How do you know a dude'll be up for it?"
"I can usually tell. But if he's not, we just forget about it and let him
sleep on the sofa. Don't want no trouble. Most guys that have been on the
road awhile will mess around though."
"That's what our dad told us once. But don't a lot of 'em wanna be paid?"
"Some do."
"Well, Paul, I gotta tell ya. My dick's usually free. But my ass is awful
expensive."
"Oh?" He seemed really surprised. "Well, some guys are that way."
"I can't give you but twenty," he added. "I'm just a working man."
"O.K. But you gotta use a condom."
"Yeah. You made that point before."
I wasn't thrilled. But he wasn't too big. And after what he'd been
watching, I thought he'd be quick. He was. About a minute.
I drifted off to sleep with my dick against his crack. I could have had
him too, if I'd wanted.
We got up early. Showered. And Paul, the fry cook, made us a great
breakfast of sausage, basted eggs, and home-made biscuits. He dropped me
at the Broad Street exit, where I24 turns south from downtown.
Copyright 2011 by Macout Mann